Winter Is Upon Us
by 0blivion
Summary: Not all of Natasha's memories are true, some are false, but there is a constant one single thread of remembrance: a cool metal hand light upon her back, tender against her cheek, tight around her throat; an assassin with a crooked smile and eyes that are harsh and cold like winter.
1. Chapter 1

One of her clearest memories was her first kill.

She remembered the way the target had breathed out a warm, damp puff of air against her shoulder as she'd slid the needle into a spot concealed by his thick beard. He'd fallen back against the pillows like a marionette whose strings had been cut; she remembered pressing her hands over his mouth to muffle the sound as he choked.

Most of all, she remembered his expression of slack surprise, his dead eyes holding a fading look of doubt, as though he hadn't quite believed what was happening even as he'd felt his throat constrict from the poison.

"It isn't likely that particular memory was implanted," she told the two men sitting across from her. The assurance was mostly for the interrogator's benefit. The SHIELD psychologist- an ashen man who twitched when she so much as looked his way- might have been interested in the idea of false memories, but it was the interrogator who asked the important questions and upon whom she directed her focus. "Some operatives had that type of memory implanted before their first mission."

"Why?" asked the psychologist.

The handcuffs, long since warmed by contact with her skin, dug into her wrists when she leaned back in her chair; it was a momentary pinch of discomfort compared to the protest her still-healing ribs made at the gesture. She took in a shallow breath, keeping the pain off her face.

"I don't know. I suppose the Red Room thought it easier to kill the second time than the first," she said.

"Is it?"

She allowed herself a small smile. Strange that a man who worked for SHIELD would ask such a naïve question. The psychologist's pinky finger twitched. "Killing is usually easy," she said. "The hard part is afterwards."

The psychologist's eyes narrowed; curiosity briefly replaced nervousness. She wondered what he was thinking, if he'd taken her words to mean that she continually laid awake at night tormented by the faces of everyone she killed. (She doesn't. She can't. If she did, she'd never sleep again.)

The interrogator shifted in his seat, drawing her attention once more. He looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were a pale hazel and, somewhat surprisingly, held no false kindness or sympathy, only guarded interest. He reminded her a little of Barton's handler. "You said that your first kill is one of your clearest memories. What are the others?"

She didn't allow her expression to change, but something in her eyes made sweat break out on the psychologist's forehead.

"I remember the Winter Soldier."

The psychologist almost fell off his chair.

Even the interrogator's blank expression cracked, surprise widening his eyes before interest narrowed them. He didn't lean forward in his chair, but there was a slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he wanted to do precisely that. When he spoke, he kept his voice low and even. "The Winter Soldier. We'd believed that he was a boogey-man." At her raised eyebrow he added, "A story the Russians spread to frighten us."

She almost laughed at that, imagining Western operatives arguing over whether or not the Winter Soldier was real. "The Winter Soldier was no story."

"What can you tell us about him?"

"What do you want to know about him?" she asked slowly.

She was already regretting her honesty, despite Barton's earlier plea to make some progress so that he could actually talk to her without bars and shackles getting in the way. Should she barter now, exchanging memories for privileges? She wondered, without bitterness, which memory would allow her to go outside and enjoy the sunlight for the first time in over a week.

"As near as we can tell, if all the stories about him are true, the Winter Soldier is probably the world's most successful assassin," the interrogator said, a dry note creeping into his voice. "Our records indicate he worked mostly from the early 50s to just before the Berlin Wall fell, though there have been a few other assassinations in the past decade that people have tried to link to him. We would consider any and all information you have about him as a clear sign of cooperation." He paused. "And perhaps some gratitude that we had Professor Xavier strip your mind of any triggers."

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. It was good to know that there weren't any triggers lurking in her mind to make her put a bullet in her own head or go on a messy rampage, but she wasn't about to thank them for it. SHIELD had done it as an act of self-preservation.

"I can tell you what I know of him, but there's only one detail that I believe important."

"And what detail is that?" the interrogator asked.

She looked past his shoulder, towards the one-way mirror beyond which Directory Fury was doubtlessly watching the interrogation. When she answered the question, she directed her words to him.

"He's dead."

"Dead?" the interrogator and the psychologist said together.

"How do you know he's dead?" the interrogator said. A hint of disbelief darkened his eyes as he leaned forward. "Our records indicate that if he existed, he is still working, just very rarely."

She took a moment to answer. Her mouth felt dry, suddenly, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth.

She didn't lick her lips or betray any discomfort; instead she pressed her lips together in a tight-lipped smile that made the psychologist do a full-body twitch.

"Your records are wrong."

"How do you know?" the interrogator asked.

"I'm the one who killed him."

There was a moment of silence. Then the door to the interrogation room opened.

Fury stepped inside, his expression unreadable as both the psychologist and the interrogator scrambled to their feet and saluted him. He motioned for them to sit, and then nodded towards her. "Why don't you start at the beginning." It wasn't a question, but as commands went, it was milder than she'd expected from the director of SHIELD.

She let one corner of her mouth curl upwards. "It may take a while in the telling." She wouldn't tell them the whole truth, of course - there were things that weren't necessary for them to know, and there were things that she didn't want them to know - but she'd tell them enough to get out of her cage.

"I don't know about you, but I have all the time in the world," Fury drawled. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at her with his one good eye, clearly waiting for her to start.

So she did.


	2. Chapter 2

Currently, there were ten boys and seven other girls in the academy with her.

There used to be more. The beds in the girls' dormitory numbered twelve. She didn't let herself think about it. She wasn't going to be one of the disappearances in the middle of the night.

She didn't know her exact age - birthdays were not considered important in the program - but she was old enough that her body had begun to change, her hips widening, her breasts itching as they got larger, her bones aching as she grew and grew and grew.

All eighteen of them were gathered together for this particular lesson, which was unusual. Usually the boys and girls were kept separate. She wondered what the lesson would be. She wondered if she was supposed to notice the man standing in the shadows of the training room, watching, or if she was supposed to pretend not to see him.

After a moment of consideration, she positioned herself in the line so that she could keep an eye on that shadowed corner.

As soon as the group was organized, Comrade Orlov snapped his fingers. He towered over the group, his dark eyes narrowed as he studied them. His gaze never rested more than a second on any of them, but after a moment he nodded to himself, his thick brown mustache quivering at the gesture. "You two," he said, pointing at her and then the tallest boy, the one who stared at her when her shirt clung to her curves after training. "Come here."

They stepped forward obediently.

When Orlov continued, he did so in a matter-of-fact tone, his words directed to the entire room. "You have been given a rare opportunity to serve your homeland, comrades. You are becoming Russia's eyes and ears and hands. You will fight for her. You will bleed for her. Some of you may even have the privilege of dying for her." He paused, and then bellowed, "What is your duty to the homeland?"

"To serve our homeland, to be her eyes and ears and hands," the group chorused obediently. It was a familiar mantra.

Orlov stepped forward and placed one warm, sweaty hand on her shoulder, his other hand on the boy's. He looked at them both for a long moment. "I am told you two have…potential. You both have completed multiple successful surveillance missions."

His words were a statement, not a question, and they both knew better than to respond.

One corner of Orlov's mouth puckered, but she couldn't tell if he was repressing a smile or a frown. "Your homeland has need of you. This will not be an intelligence mission. This will be more dangerous. Are you ready to be her hands?"

She didn't let her reaction show on her face even as her back muscles tightened in anticipation and something like excitement churned her stomach. From the corner of her eye, she saw a muscle jump in the boy's jaw.

"Yes, comrade," they said, the boy a half-second behind her.

"I only need one of you for this mission," Orlov said. He stepped away. "Win, and prove yourself worthy of your homeland."

The boy's fist swung, striking empty air; she'd started moving as Orlov had said 'one.' She lashed out, her foot catching him in the vulnerable softness of his belly. He buckled, his breath escaping him in one startled rush, but he managed to turn the fall into a roll out of her reach.

She darted after him, her fist aiming for his throat. He dodged, grabbed her wrist, and threw her over his shoulder.

This time it was her turn to turn a fall into a roll. Her heart pounded in her ears. It was almost enough to drown out the sound of his feet thumping against the floor as he rushed at her. Almost, but not quite, and she dove under his wild charge, sliding under his legs and twisting to grab his left ankle and yank him off his feet. He landed hard and wrong; she heard something snap as he yelped in pain.

Before he could rise, she put him into a headlock, tight enough that his eyes rolled frantically and he gagged. He lashed out, trying to gouge her eyes, to break her hold, but she only tightened her grip until he choked for air. Tears streamed down his face as she didn't let up the pressure.

The boy continued to choke, and still Orlov said nothing.

She watched the boy's lips begin to turn blue, and said, keeping her voice toneless, her arm steady and unwavering around the boy's throat, "Comrade Orlov, the order was to fight. Has the order changed to kill?"

There were another few seconds in which she watched the boy's fingers twitch wildly. Then Orlov said, "No. Release him."

She let him fall. Then she stood. She saluted Orlov once she was on her feet.

"Leave," Orlov said, looking at the other boys and girls. He didn't glance at the boy, who continued to gasp and sob on the ground until one of the other girls hauled him upright and helped him limp from the room.

She wondered if the boy would still be here tomorrow, or if he would leave behind another empty bed, a warning that there was no tolerance for failure. She pushed the dangerous thought away and stood there, hands at her sides.

During all of this, the man in the shadows hadn't made a sound or even moved.

"You will be dealing with a traitor," Orlov told her once the door was shut behind the last of the girls. "He thinks his crimes have gone unnoticed, and that even if we did discover them, he is too useful to be punished. You will correct this misapprehension. Permanently."

Her breath caught in her throat for a second. She had to swallow before she could respond, to ensure that her voice was still without inflection. "Yes, comrade."

Orlov turned towards the shadowed corner, and the man finally stepped forward. His face was an unfamiliar one, his age indeterminate but she estimated that he was perhaps eight or ten years older than she. His hair was dark, his eyes and skin pale, and he held himself like a soldier, his reserved gaze focused upon Orlov as he stood at parade-rest.

To her surprise, Orlov didn't salute the man or even introduce him. Instead, Orlov said, "He will explain your mission in further detail." When she looked at him, Orlov was wearing an expression she didn't recognize, the muscles tight in his jaw and a particular pallor to his features. Sweat gleamed on his forehead.

He was, she realized, frightened.

"Yes, comrade," she repeated, keeping the realization off her face, and then mirrored the stranger's stance, her hands behind her, as Orlov left and shut the door firmly after him.

The stranger barely looked at her. "I am told you have shown some skill at stealth as well," he said.

There was a pause, and with another flicker of surprise she didn't let show on her face, she realized that he was waiting for her response. "I do my best for Russia, comrade," she said at last, uncertain what he wanted from her. There was no familiar mantra to fall back upon, not here.

"And are you prepared for all that entails? Orlov didn't ask if you'd be ready to kill a man, which is what you'll be doing," he said.

She sucked in a quick, surprised breath at his directness before she realized her body had betrayed her. She lifted her chin, met his eyes. "Comrade Orlov said that would be the mission, comrade," she said.

The lines at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced now, almost like he was amused. "No, he didn't," he said. "Orlov used a more delicate euphemism. Repeat what he said, word for word." The last sentence was said sharply, a sudden command.

She didn't hesitate. "I will be dealing with a traitor. He thinks his crimes have gone unnoticed, and that even if we did discover them, that he is too useful to Russia to be punished. I will correct this misapprehension. Permanently."

The crease was still there. "And happily?"

The stranger stepped closer to her. She instinctively lowered her gaze to the ground, clasping her hands still tighter behind her. "Happily, gladly, comrade. I can fulfill the mission," she said. "I will be our homeland's eyes and ears and-"

His gloved hand touched her chin, tilted her face upward so that she was forced to meet his eyes. This close, she saw that his irises were a pale shade of blue. He smiled. The warmth of the smile didn't reach his eyes, but it was not an unkind gesture, nor, she thought, an entirely false one.

"No need for that mantra. I believe you," he said.

Then his gloved hand dropped to her throat, his fingers tightening around her throat.

She lashed out instinctively, a hard punch to the man's throat that made him rock backwards, a dark flush coloring his cheeks as he gasped for air. She darted out of his reach, eyeing him warily, but he made a sound that seemed almost like laughter.

"I will be honest with you," he said. "I've wanted to test your skills since you spotted me in the corner and kept me in your line of sight, even during most of your fight. You are impressive."

She found herself smiling, both out of pride and eagerness. This man moved like a fighter, his stance an unfamiliar, exciting style. "It is your turn to impress me, comrade," she said, and sprang at him.

The man had height and muscle, but she was faster, darting out of his reach time and time again before he could use those strengths against her. His blows, when they landed, were powerful. One lucky blow from his left hand left her licking the corner of her mouth and tasting blood.

She aimed a kick at his knee, unsurprised when he caught her leg with both hands. For a moment the fight paused as they stared at each other. They both breathed hard. Sweat trickled down her forehead, and his face was flushed a deep red.

He tightened his grip on her ankle, hard enough that the bones grinded against each other and she had to repress a wince. "I could break your ankle," he said, almost conversationally.

"You won't," she said, and watched him look amused.

"I suppose Orlov would be irritated if I break you," he said. His left hand tightened further, sending agony shooting up her leg.

She didn't let the pain contort her expression or enter her voice as she repeated, "You won't." She used him as a sounding board, her free foot striking his unprotected groin; he released her with a quiet grunt of surprise.

She back-flipped out of his reach and watched him warily.

The man hadn't sunk to the floor like the boys had when she'd used that move against them; his expression had turned waxen and his knees had started to buckle, but he still stood. He even managed a half-smile, sickly though it was.

"Orlov mentioned you prefer unconventional methods of taking down your opponents," he said.

"Any means necessary, comrade," she said.

His smile broadened at that, turned almost approving. "Any means necessary," he agreed, and then stripped off his gloves.

Light caught on the metal and made the prosthetic hand shine.

She rocked back on her heels, her hand snapping up in an instinctive salute. "Comrade!" she said, and wasn't ashamed at the awe that colored her voice. Even in the Red Room, where they were only told what was strictly necessary, there were still rumors of the Winter Soldier, Russia's finest assassin.

No one seemed to know where he had come from. Some thought he was like the others being trained, an orphan put to a great purpose who had turned out to have an aptitude for killing. Others thought he was a soldier who had gone willingly into Doctor Rodchenko's chambers. There, he'd been broken down into an empty vessel for Rodchenko to use so that the Winter Soldier would be a body and mind concerned only with the death of the homeland's enemies.

The Winter Soldier did his not-smile again, the corners of his eyes creasing ever so slightly. She thought, almost absently, that no man who thought of only of killing could smile like that.

To her quiet horror, her hand, still held in the salute, began to shake. She dropped her hand to her side, clenched both hands into fists. He may have stripped off his gloves, but he was still standing in a fighting stance. Any moment he was going to take advantage of her astonishment and attack.

Her traitorous hands continued to shake. He was going to see her trembling, she knew. He was going to see how she was falling apart over the realization that she had fought and held her own against the Winter Soldier, and then he would recognize that she wasn't ready for a mission. She would return to the dormitory and be punished as the boy was doubtlessly being punished.

"Adrenaline," he said.

She blinked and resisted the urge to quietly swear. If he'd wished, he could have had her on the ground during her moment of inattention. She eyed him warily. "Comrade?"

"You are shaking because of the adrenaline from the fights," he said calmly. "You'll experience something similar after you've killed Kaverin. Keep breathing, slow and steady, and the tremors will pass."

"I- thank you, comrade," she said, licking dry lips.

He turned on heel and began walking away. "Come along, Natalia, and let me tell you more about Kaverin and how you will kill him."

She stared at his back. She wasn't certain what to be more surprised about, that he had stopped the fight so abruptly or that he had called her-

"Natalia?" She rolled it around on her tongue, savoring it.

He looked over his shoulder at her, one eyebrow rising. "That is your name, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes, comrade," she said slowly, guardedly.

Names were a delicate matter here in the Red Room. The Red Room took your name away when you entered the program and returned it once you'd proven your worth. She knew her name, of course, had whispered it into her pillow more than once just to hear it said aloud, but no one had called her by name since….well.

She added, still cautious as she fell into place beside him just out of reach of his metal arm, "Perhaps Comrade Orlov didn't tell you, but I have not earned-"

"He said nothing of your name. I looked at your records myself." The Winter Soldier frowned, curiosity temporarily softening the lines of his face. "What does Orlov call you all during training, then?"

She shrugged. "He points, comrade."

"He points," the Winter Soldier echoed, and actually chuckled. It was a soft, slightly hoarse sound, as though he had not laughed in some time. "Well, I think it will be easier if I call you by name, Natalia."

"Yes, comrade," Natalia said. She didn't let herself think about how much she wanted him to say her name a third time, or a fourth. She hesitated a moment. "And what should I call you, comrade?"

His expression didn't change, but she found herself instinctively adjusting her stance, ready to step even further away from him. "Winter Soldier will do."

"Yes, Winter Soldier," Natalia said, and followed him from the room.

He was waiting for her outside the hotel after she had killed Kaverin. The Winter Soldier wore scuffed, muddy boots and a threadbare factory uniform that was a size too large for his lean frame.

For a second, their eyes met and held, passing between them a silent message of 'mission accomplished' and 'well done.' Then his expression transformed, shifting from neutrality to good-natured exasperation.

"I've been waiting forever, Elya," he exclaimed. He reached out, tugging at her dyed-blonde hair the way she thought an older brother might. Both hands were gloved. "Mother was worried."

She tossed her hair and giggled, a young girl's carefree laugh practiced with Comrade Kozlova for countless hours until it sounded natural. "I was just visiting Anya," she said, the name their spoken signal of success, and then caught his hand in hers, tugging him away from the hotel. "Come, I want to tell Mother about what Anya's brother's wife said…."

They were halfway down the street by the time shocked yells erupted from within the hotel. Neither Natalia nor the Winter Soldier looked back.

"Any complications?" he murmured in her ear.

"None," she said. "It was…." She hesitated and then finally gave voice to her troubled thoughts. "It was easy."

"Killing is usually easy," the Winter Soldier said. There was still a warm smile on his lips, but his eyes were distant. "The hard part is afterwards."

Natalia looked at him curiously. "Do you…," she began, and then paused. Would he take offense if she asked him if he regretted having to kill, even for Russia? "Do you remember the first person you killed?" Does it still haunt you? Will Kaverin's expression haunt me? She didn't think it would, kept waiting for something, some reaction to the fact that she had watched a man die by her hand only a few minutes earlier.

The reaction seemed slow in coming. She wondered if it would come at all.

The Winter Soldier's stride didn't falter, but something flashed across his face, a grimace that lasted for all of a second and then was gone. "No." Strange, how a single syllable could hold so much warning and rebuke.

"Forgive me," she said immediately. The fixed smile upon her face was beginning to ache. "It is none of my business."

The Winter Soldier took one more step, then another. "I regret the necessity," he said. After a moment she realized he was answering her unasked question. "We lost so many in the war. It is a waste to lose more because of greed, cowardice, or stupidity."

"He was stupid," she said, ducking her head to flash the Winter Soldier a slight frown. Kaverin had been weak, a fool with a predilection for girls and money; he hadn't understood what was happening even after she'd injected him and the poison had started to work.

"Yes."

They continued the walk in silence. Natalia took a few slow, deep breaths, enjoying the air's crispness, the bite of cold on her cheeks. When she glanced over at the Winter Soldier, she found he wore an odd expression. If she hadn't known better, she would have identified the look as one of regret.

"Comrade?" she asked.

He shook his head, as though to clear his mind. "It's nothing," he said, but his gaze slid away from hers and she knew he was lying, and lying badly.

"Comrade," she repeated. This time she didn't use any inflection in the words.

He pressed his lips together, anger narrowing his eyes. Was he angry at her, she wondered, or himself? "You looked like any other girl on the streets of Leningrad," he said.

"Oh," Natalia said slowly. That didn't explain the fury tightening his shoulders and darkening his expression. Perhaps he was irritated that she had gone too deeply into her cover as Elya? "I-"

They were a block away from the Department X headquarters. Without warning, the Winter Soldier caught her by her scarf and dragged her into the nearest alley.

She didn't try to struggle out of his grip, which would have only earned her a choking by her own scarf, but she did punch him hard in his kidneys, enjoying the grunt of pain she elicited. "What are you doing," she said, keeping her voice low and letting her displeasure show only in her narrowed eyes.

"They will call it a reward," he said, ignoring her question. His pale eyes caught hers and held them, a strange light burning in them. "They will call it a reward, and to them, it is. It is the greatest gift they will ever give you, and, Natalia Romanova, it will be terrible. It will be hell, it will be agony, it will be as though they are pouring acid in your veins, as though they are burning you alive. And then? The pain will get worse."

Her tongue felt thick and awkward in her mouth. She swallowed. "Comrade- Winter Soldier-"

He continued as though she hadn't spoken. "It will be agony, but if you survive, you will truly be one of Russia's greatest tools. I can promise you far better missions than killing an old fool like Alexi Kaverin, missions that will truly aid our homeland. You will have your pick of them."

If I survive? The craven question caught in her throat. Instead, she found herself lowering her gaze to the grimy snow beneath their feet and asking, "Why are you telling me this, Comrade?"

He was silent for a moment. "Because it should be a reward," he said at last. "And perhaps, if you know what you have to look forward to afterwards, you can have something to focus on besides the pain."

Natalia didn't know what to make of that. The Winter Soldier was an enigma to her, this man with the ability to laugh with honest amusement one moment and in the next strangle a condemned man to death simply to show her how delicate a person's throat was, this man who looked at Orlov with contempt and yet once broke a fellow operative's arm for questioning Orlov's orders, this man who seemed to be breaking the rules to offer her some semblance of comfort.

She was aware of his gaze upon her, and after a moment she lifted her chin and met his eyes. For a second, she let all her masks fall, smiling in a way that made unused muscles twinge, a thank-you that she would not, could not put a voice to.

"Better missions, comrade?" she asked.

He stepped away from her, a small smirk curling his lips. The anger was gone so swiftly that she wondered if this too had been a test, his attempt at comfort a ruse to gauge her true feelings. Metal fingers released her scarf, reached out to pat her head as though she were a dog who'd just performed a successful trick.

"Better missions," he assured her. "If you survive, ask Orlov about Project Chessmen. Now, come along."

He strolled from the alley at a slow, unhurried pace, and Natalia trailed after, excitement churning her stomach even as a quiet voice in the back of her head whispered mockingly, if you survive, if you survive, if you survive….

The serum felt like poison burning its way through her veins, shredding her muscles, cracking her bones.

Natalia screamed until she had no voice, vomited until there was nothing left in her but dry heaving, wept until she'd used up all her tears. She knew she was slipping in and out of consciousness by the way the volume of the voices around her seemed to flicker in and out like a malfunctioning radio.

Agony was a constant companion, turning even the insides of her eyelids scarlet as she writhed on the bed. They restrained her; she broke free. They restrained her again; this time she rose from the bed and broke the arm of one of the nurses as she shrieked, then the neck of a guard when he drew a gun on her. It was as easy as Kavelin; the guard's neck broke with one quick gesture and he dropped like a stone.

A familiar metal arm pressed against her throat, pushing her back upon the bed. Through the roaring in her ears, she heard a voice snarl, "Stay still or I'll break your neck and see how quickly the serum heals you." The Winter Soldier's voice was both familiar and not, distorted by an accent she thought might be German. Quieter, he added, "This will end sooner if you don't tear out the damn tubes, Romanova. Stay still and it'll be over soon."

She obeyed the order even as she burned from the inside out. She bit her lips until they bled, the taste of copper hot and thick on her tongue, the smallest of distractions from the overwhelming agony.

After some time, she realized the pain was ebbing to a deep ache.

Natalia opened her eyes.

The Winter Soldier stood guard, his arms at his side. His clothing was odd, too, fabric she didn't recognize. He must be going outside the country. When she looked at him, he shifted in place, blinking for a moment as though he were coming out of a trance.

"Is the pain manageable now? You can control yourself?" he asked, tone brusque, still with that strange accent. When she managed a nod of assent, he gave her a sharp nod in return and turned on heel. "Orlov, I think you can handle her now on your own," he snapped, letting some of his disgust color his voice. "If you no longer need me, I will go finish the preparations for my actual mission."

"Yes, thank you," she heard Orlov say in an almost humble voice.

Then Orlov leaned over her bed, a too-wide smile on his face as he blocked her view of the rest of the room. "Congratulations, Natalia Romanova," he said, grabbing her right hand and shaking it heartily. "How do you feel?"

She looked at him for a moment, seeing the poorly concealed fear in his eyes. He was terrified of her, she realized, of her and the Winter Soldier and all the known and unknown ways the serum had transformed them. She studied herself. Already the cuts and abrasions on her hands, the split knuckles and bruises earned from trying to escape, were beginning to mend.

Natalia licked at the corner of her mouth, her lips already healed but still tasting faintly of blood. It took a few attempts to get her abused throat to cooperate enough for speech.

"I am fine. Tell me about Operation Chessmen," she whispered.

Orlov blanched. "O-Operation Chessmen?"

"Operation Chessmen," she repeated, more firmly.

Orlov dropped her hand and took a step back from the bed. "You have only just been given the serum, we have done no tests, I do not know if-"

Natalia found herself smiling without quite meaning to. Orlov, impossibly, turned paler. "Tell me about Operation Chessmen, Comrade Orlov," she said, lowering her voice and looking up at him from behind her lashes. It was a look she had practiced with Comrade Kozlova many times, a look she'd tested upon Kaverin with great success right before she'd used the needle.

Despite the fact that she was drenched with sweat and doubtlessly had vomit on her clothes, the look still seemed to work. Orlov cleared his throat, color returning to his face in unsightly blotches. "Very well. Operation Chessmen is-"

Natalia gave Orlov just enough attention to memorize the conversation and be able to recall Orlov's words in exact detail later. Once she was certain that Orlov was absorbed in the sound of his own voice she looked past him.

The Winter Soldier was nowhere in sight.

She didn't press a hand to her throat where he had pinned her to the bed, or touch the spot on her ear his mouth had brushed as he'd whispered to her. She didn't wonder at his strange acts of brutal kindness. She didn't ask Orlov where the Winter Soldier was going.

Instead she kept her hands in her lap and listened as Orlov said, "There is a belief, Romanova, among the great minds of our country, that one person in the right place at the right time can change the course of history, can topple nations…."


End file.
